It treads a fine line between swashbuckling versatility and a lack of cohesion. Versatility largely wins out.

You would not start here if you were new to this ear-boggling band, but Longstreth remains a singular talent.

By now, most listeners will know where they stand on Vedder’s distinctive holler and the band’s beefiness; little on Dark Matter is likely to enchant gen Z away from their own heroes. But the faithful will rejoice.

Again, there are no beats, just washes of guitar noise; the difference this time is that Gordon’s vocals are now buried so deep within the mix that they are largely unintelligible, and strangely unobtrusive.

Somewhere between the cuteness of Shamir and the scariness of Mykki Blanco you will find New York’s Le1f, a ballet dancer-turned-producer-turned rapper. Although his out-ness is a big part of the appeal of this warped and edgy party album, the nod to riot grrrl in its title hints at far wider-ranging agendas within.

The likes of Gold Digger and I Was Raised in Babylon suggesting that, almost half a century into his career, there’s plenty of life in Yusuf yet.

This album is, without a doubt, a big, glitchy, swooning, hyper-modern declaration of love.

It can feel a little lacking in direction – honed down from more than 900 home experiments, it’s eclectic almost to a fault, though there’s enough to treasure among its dreamy meanderings.

It’s a lovely sound, but the songwriting veers more towards the serviceable than the inspired.

It doesn’t quite match the standard of late-career high point The Liberty of Norton Folgate (2009), but the album is not without its moments.

Grip is OK, but it should make more sense on stage.

So you might come to Teatime Dub Encounters--a most English half-smile of titles, one that echoes the rueful cosiness of another Underworld opus, Second Toughest in the Infants--for the antic misdemeanours, or for the latterday Dylanish radio drawl, but you will stay for the way Iggy confesses that he has always struggled to make friends and keep the ones he’s got--the gist of I’ll See Big.

Equals tilts heavily into contentment and maturity, including an obligatory lullaby – Sandman – for his little one. Nice Ed gains the upper hand, with a commensurate loss in musical interest.

Smith is an easy fit for disco pop. ... But then Ed Sheeran crops up on Who We Love, bearing the unnecessary gift of a midtempo wet blanket.

This is, ultimately, an album that has a spectacularly strong sense of place – London, NW1 and NW3 – and some very definitive British musical reference points, which nonetheless wonders, eloquently, where home is.

The reinventions just aren’t brave enough.

Bodega Bait or ATM don’t bring anything to the kids v commerce discourse that you couldn’t get from a jpeg of Nirvana’s Nevermind. Much better is GND Deity, a punchy metallic funk side-eye at the “girl next door” online sex industry, electrifying despite dated references to the long-gone web pages.

For every hit... there are a couple of misses.

Now she sounds fully formed, her rich lyrics (“Was my cup so full I thought it was empty?” she riddles, koan-like, on the dreamy shuffle of Mama Proud) and the dark depth of her Chan Marshall-ish voice adding intrigue to these subtly crafted songs.

It’s an impressive display of ambition and reinvention, all the more dramatic because singer-songwriters in Lala Lala’s previous, Liz Phair-ish incarnation are 10-a-penny.

The results are undeniably classy.

Devotees will no doubt swoon (and sceptics scoff) at its florid excesses, but Amos's voice possesses enough conviction and personality to breathe life into what could have been an orchestral folly.

No track here breaks the five-minute mark; only Something Human lets the side down with an acoustic guitar.

I Long To See You finds him still busting genres.

While not quite a return to form, the album’s sleek yet plaintive production is a welcome reminder of what Blake does best.

It’s a buoyant sound--Brahim’s voice is too airy for drones and chants--led by rolling pieces such as Calles de Dajla and followed by slow, contemplative blues.

There's plenty of widescreen, orchestral-surge production to match the look-how-far-we've-come sentiment, but Devlin remains most compelling in scowling underdog mod

Sometimes the angst seems to overpower the song structure, as on The Apartment, where Plunkett describes the newly acquired habit of smoking as “performing my need”. ... Best of all is Swimmer, reminiscent of Glasser or Austra with its chilly, rippling arpeggios and pulsing, depth-charge beats.